The Terror of Being Alone

Untethered. Unmoored. Adrift. The thing that had anchored me in this world had suddenly and unwillingly become dislodged.

Throughout our marriage, even the tiniest of arguments with Tall Texan Husband would trigger in me an unfounded (or so I thought at the time) terror that he would leave me. Disagreements shook my confidence that he no longer liked me. I wasn’t a “good wife”.

“Why are you even with me?” I would shout through tears.

Yes, this was my second marriage. But I had done the leaving the first time around, so fear of abandonment didn’t seem to explain my reaction. Of course, I did not want marriage #2 to end — I was deeply in love with Tall Texan Husband (and “twice-divorced 39-year-old mother” isn’t exactly a winning Tinder tagline). But why did my mind twist every disagreement into a potential marriage-ending catastrophe? In what was this irrational panic rooted?

What is so terrifying about being alone?

My identity revolved around being married. In my mind, it was the pinnacle of adult success and stability. College and graduate school? Check. Successful career saving the world? Check. Cool passport with visa stamps from far-flung places? Check. Paying off my car loan and paying into a Roth IRA? Check and check.

But what is all that for if you don’t have anyone to share it with?

And what value did I have on Earth if I wasn’t desired enough to be someone’s lifelong partner?

As exciting as my globe-trotting travel tales were, the stories I wanted to be telling were ones of the collective “we”. Simple tales of autumn weekends visiting the apple orchard. Coupled selfies at the baseball game or of dinner at “our” favorite place. Laughing (after the fact) about tragic plumbing horrors on Thanksgiving. THIS was adulthood. THIS was arriving. THIS was ultimate achievement.

Marriage, in my mind, was a testament to the world that I have value, I am loved, I am worthy of taking up space on this planet.

And then my worst fear came true.

Tall Texan Husband told me he wasn’t in love with me anymore.

* * *

I was enmeshed and emotionally dependent on marriage as the foundation of my self-worth.

I realized it wasn’t the aloneness that terrified me. It was the prospect of failure. And the shame that came with such failure.

You see, my family is one of the legends. My grandfather’s story was the quintessential script of pull-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps American dream cinema. A Depression-era farm boy in rural Minnesota enlisted in the U.S. Coast Guard, used his G.I. bill to get an engineering degree, and worked his way up to VP at a Fortune 100 company. Just before his Coast Guard deployment to the South Pacific, he married a sweet young nurse named Edie, with whom he would end up having 5 children.

This picture-perfect, 1950s Catholic family of seven moved around to exotic locales like The Netherlands and Palos Verdes, California. Each of their five children — three boys, two girls — married and had their own children. Soon we were a brood of 14 grandchildren that would line up for photos at family reunions, first by age, then by height. And when the grandchildren started getting married, my grandparents’ annual Christmas letters boasted about each new great-grandchild added to the tribe.

Adding to the tribe — growing Grandpa’s legacy — was the family’s unspoken achievement of highest value.

At one of those family reunions, someone unrolled a big family tree that traced our lineage back to its roots in Germany. Amidst the births and deaths depicted on the sprawling canvas, there were only a couple remarriages — but ones forced by things like typhoid and occupational accidents. Divorce didn’t appear anywhere.

* * *

I still remember the dread in my stomach when I called my grandparents at the end of my first marriage. I was close to my grandparents — they were the only ones I had. Like most of my family, I idolized my grandfather, his world travels, his professional accomplishments, the strong family he had founded. I admired my grandmother, resilient, humble, and quietly proud of the family she had raised. But we didn’t talk regularly. My call was definitely something out of the ordinary.

My father had tipped them off that I had some important news to share with them. My grandfather answered. “Edith — it’s Ava!” he called. The line clicked as my grandmother picked up the second line in their bedroom.

I knew my news would devastate them. I was terrified of their disappointment. Of the disruption, I would cause to our perfect family tree. Of the black mark, I would leave on their legacy.

“So how are you two?” I asked, thinking I would ease into the conversation. “I have some news to tell you,” I said somberly.

“Come on, come on, come on!” my grandfather exclaimed. The excitement in his voice revealed that my father had not provided any hints about my news. It was clear my grandfather thought I was about to tell him I was pregnant with his fifth great-grandchild.

Not knowing how to redirect or stall any longer, I blurted out: “I’m getting a divorce.”

The line was silent. Frozen in shock. Leaden with disappointment. Cloaked in shame.

I would be the first on the family tree with that dishonorable label next to my name: “dv. 2010”, and the ugly hashmarks notating the severed relationship.

* * *

My grandmother was my matron of honor at my second wedding (a small, courthouse affair). Even though my grandparents have both passed on, a second failed marriage loomed before me as scary as the Big, Bad Wolf that menaces my daughter in her dreams.

It wasn’t the aloneness that terrified me. It was the shame of betraying a family legacy. It was my fear of not being enough. It was the thought of rejection. Of having to start over, once again.

But most of all, I was terrified of having to face myself, to know myself, and to accept myself.

* * *

My two ex-husbands couldn’t be more different. But in both relationships, I felt unfulfilled and emotionally unsatisfied. I realize now my failures in both marriages were in compromising the core elements of my identity bit by little bit.

Consumed by my intense need for external acceptance and love, I ignored who I most desired to be. Instead, I adapted and morphed into the version of the person I thought my husband would most desire.

Now I am embracing the vulnerability of being alone. Some days with grace. Some days with grief. But always with an intention to fall in love with myself.

If we give ourselves permission to be fearlessly authentic, what might it attract, in the global and spiritual dimensions of attraction? Who might it attract in friendships, business relationships, or a future partner?

And how might our walks through this world be different if we focused on first falling in love with ourselves?

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Previously published on “Hello, Love”, a Medium publication.

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